


Articulate

by chatoyere (orphan_account)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dirty Talk, Kink Meme, M/M, Witches
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 13:47:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3292610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/chatoyere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"I wanna fuck you against that 18th century map of the New World," Dean says and Sam drops the book he's holding.</i>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Kink meme fill from eons ago featuring cursed!Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Articulate

"I wanna fuck you against that 18th century map of the New World," Dean says and Sam drops the book he's holding.  
  
It's not so much that they're standing in the middle of a very quiet, very subdued library.  It's not even that they'd fucked less than ten hours ago, or that Sam is especially worried about the preservation of the carefully glass-encased 18th century relic.  It's more that Dean said it in a perfectly audible, perfectly casual speaking voice and now he has the audacity to look  _surprised_  at himself.  
  
Sam stares at Dean, and Dean stares right back; wide eyes and confused expressions and they're both trying to figure out if the other one is seriously considering it.  
  
Then Dean flicks his eyes at the Circulation Desk, where two very interested looking employees are eying them suspiciously.  
  
"Maybe not," says Sam.  
  
"It'd be fucking hot, watching you take my cock while you read place names off the map to try and keep yourself from blowing your load all over the wa-"  
  
"Jesus Christ, Dean!"  Sam grabs Dean by his jacket and hauls him off to a not-so-public part of library at the same time Dean claps a hand over his own mouth and his eyes bug out comically wide.  A hand over the mouth doesn't seem to deter him in the least though, Sam can still hear him mumbling out filthy suggestions while his expression grows more and more desperate.  
  
"-n ah mph mmph-"  
  
"Dean,  _shut up_."  
  
"Mph  _mmn't_!" Dean says emphatically, then goes right on to describe something that as far as Sam can make out involves doing unforgivable things to the biography of Ben Franklin on the shelf right over Sam's shoulder.  Sam sighs.  
  
"Curse?" He asks.  
  
Dean rolls his eyes and nods, hand still clamped tight to his mouth.  


*  
  
  
They get out of the library with only a few accusing stares, Dean trying his best to keep his head down and his mouth tightly covered.  Disaster is just barely averted when Dean reaches out to hold the door open for a young mother and her stroller, taking his hand off his face for one crucial moment and a few stray words about how she should "join in the fun" slip out.    
  
Sam steps in and talks a mile a minute about this great book club they've joined until she wisely backs away from his slightly manic enthusiasm.  
  
"Okay, so a curse."  Sam has to keep talking otherwise all he has to listen to is Dean's colorful commentary about how apparently every telephone pole, tall building, or large stick reminds him of Sam's cock.  "Who've you pissed off lately?"  
  
Dean shrugs and reminds Sam for the seventh time in the last five minutes how tight his pants are and how he's not wearing underwear today.  And Jesus, this might be a curse but Dean's voice is doing things to him, going on and on about all the filthy hot things he'd like to do to Sam in front of God, nature, and every resident of Maplewood, California.  They make the walk back to the motel room via the lesser-used back roads by unspoken consent.  
  
As soon as the door closes Dean lets out a big sigh like he's been holding something in, like he's been holding anything at all in since they left the library.  
  
"- c'mon Sammy take off your pants I want to blow you right now, just suck you down like I'm- "  
  
"Right.  Okay."  Sam claps his hands together and doesn't consider Dean's suggestion.  Okay, he considers a little, but only a very little; and only then because he thinks maybe carrying out the act that Dean is currently describing could possibly be a way to undo the curse.  But no, curses don't work like that, at least none that Sam's ever heard of.  Which means he needs to check the room, needs to find something but fuck if Dean isn't making it a little bit hard to think.  "Could you, I don't know - hold your breath or something?"  
  
Dean sucks in a big breath of air and shuts his mouth, his cheeks bulging out comically wide.  It lasts about a second before he's off and running again, this time talking about something that would involve getting carpet burn on Sam's chest and possibly his arms.  Sam doesn't listen.  
  
He doesn't.  
  
"Hex bags.  We gotta search the room for hex bags."  
  
Dean gives a disappointed little nod and starts rifling through his bedding while Sam checks the kitchen.  Twenty minutes later they've turned the room completely upside-down and found no fucking reason why Dean is describing in loving detail everything he loves about rimming Sam's asshole.   Dean is sitting on his bed, hands braced on his knees and staring off into space as he talks; like he's describing some kind of gay incestuous dream vacation cruise.  His voice has gone a little rough, talking non-stop for the past forty minutes or so taking its toll.  
  
Cold fear settles over Sam.  If Dean can't stop talking, can he sleep?  Can he eat?  Sam grabs a water bottle from the nightstand and holds it up to Dean's face.  Dean grabs it out of his hand and tips it into his mouth, still muttering.  As soon as the water hits his tongue he stops, and there's a long blessedly silent pause as he swallows down the water.  
  
As soon as he's finished swallowing his mouth starts working again.  
  
"- lick you open, really take my time with it.  Spend fucking hours just teasing you until - "  
  
Sam sinks down on the opposite bed and buries his face in his hands.  His dick has been hard since they left the library, and fuck if that isn't making it all the more difficult to think about this rationally because while some of Dean's suggestions may be a little off the beaten path, pretty much all of them sound damn tempting.  Would it be so bad if they just tried it?  There's always a chance it could cure the direct line that seems to have developed between Dean's downstairs brain and his mouth.  It couldn't hurt.  
  
Unless of course it was a temperance spell, in which case giving in to temptation would be very, very bad.  Shit, he needs  to do some research.  
  
Sam boots up the laptop and that only shifts Dean's focus.  He waxes poetic about porn - watching porn, buying porn, making porn.  Making porn?  
  
"We'd make a killing, dude.  Set up a camera right at the corner of the bed, get a nice angle of everything.  Think of all those poor losers watching us and jerking off just thinking about - "  
  
"We're not making porn," Sam objects, but it falls on deaf ears.    
  
He hits up all the usual sites for info - the message boards and the chat rooms only known to hunters.  Everyone says the same thing, must be hex bags or a dark altar, otherwise only way to break it is to purify the mind and body.  Sam reads that last bit aloud and looks pointedly at Dean.  
  
Dean looks back.  "We could totally fuck in the shower.  I know it's not that big but if you braced your legs on either side - "  
  
So much for that idea.    
  
"I'm gonna go check the car for hex bags."  


*

  
The car turns up nothing; even when Sam pops the hood and pokes around in the parts he knows Dean would have a coronary about him touching.  When he steps back inside the room, he finds Dean spread out naked on the bed stroking himself.  His throat must be sore as hell, because he's coughing every so often and his words are more rasp than voice.  
  
"Dean?"  
  
"Mmm, Sammy Sammy Sammy.  Why don't you get over here and help me out with this huh?  I can't do this alone," he snorts. "Well, I could.  But I don't want to."  
  
Sam weighs almost certain damnation against the likelihood that he'll be able to successfully purify Dean's mind and body in this state.  He thinks, very rationally, that he is fucked either way.  But Dean's voice is breaking on every word now, dry and painful sounding.  He grabs the first thing he can find, one of their henleys tucked under the blankets at the foot of the bed and holds it up for Dean's approval.  Dean nods, resigned.  
  
It's a struggle to get the fabric stuffed in Dean's mouth; he can't seem to stop talking long enough to open wide and his fumbling hands can't seem to decide whether they want to help or hinder the process.  Sam pushes and prods until Dean's mouth is stretched wide around the bundle of fabric and then ties the arms of the shirt securely behind Dean's head.  Dean just closes his eyes and takes a deep breath in and out through his nose, looking relieved.  
  
He's flushed from his his forehead down to his chest, still trying to talk through the gag in incoherent monosyllables.  Even with the consonants mumbled and mashed together as they are, Sam can pick out the basic rhythm of  _fuck_  and  _Sam_ and  _please_ as he braces his hands on Dean's hips and leans down to tongue the head of his cock.  The muted sounds Dean's making rise in pitch and desperation and his hips twitch up off the bed, Sam shifts and presses down harder, opens his mouth just enough to suck on the very head.  
  
He sinks down slowly, working his tongue along the vein underneath and stretching his jaw so wide he feels the joints crack.  It's uncomfortable like this, curled over with his legs hanging off the edge of the bed and his grip on Dean the only thing keeping him upright.  He shifts, trusting that Dean's got back some control and plants one hand on the mattress for some leverage.  
  
Dean tastes the same as he always does, the bitter heady taste of pre-come mixed with the slight tang of sweat, but there's something different about this that Sam can't pinpoint and it bothers him.  A taste or a touch of something that feels off, and it isn't until then that Sam realizes Dean's hands aren't braced on his shoulders or wrapped in his hair the way they'd normally be.  
  
It's the same moment Sam realizes that Dean is talking again, a steady stream of filth falling from his lips and he pulls off and looks up to see the gag is laying in a crumpled knot on the mattress.  
  
"- look so fucking good stretched wide for me.  Take it, c'mon Sam, swallow me down and suck me -"  
  
"Dean?"  Dean doesn't stop talking, but he doesn't make any attempt at answering him.  "Dean, what happened to the gag?"  
  
"- gonna fuck your goddamn gorgeous mouth and fill you up with my spunk -"  
  
Dean's eyes are cloudy and unfocused, like he's not even aware of what he's saying and it gives Sam chills because he's not even sure if this is really Dean talking anymore.  Fuck, what if it's all the curse?  Sam isn't doing anything they haven't done a thousand times before, but there's no way of telling how the curse is working, how it's really affecting Dean.  
  
"Dean!"  Sam snaps his fingers in front of Dean's face.  He blinks slowly and focuses on Sam's face.  
  
"Jesus, Sammy what?  Thought you were gonna blow me."  He goes on to describe his ideal blowjob in painstaking detail, and even though the roughness of his voice is painful to hear Sam is glad for the reassurance.  Yeah, whatever else is going on it's definitely still Dean in there.  
  
Sam gets Dean gagged again with considerably more difficulty this time; Dean seems to have taken the Sam's abortive blowjob attempt as encouragement to keep talking at all costs.  As soon as the gag is tied Dean is reaching up to pull it off again, Sam tries to bat his hands away a couple of times before he resorts to catching both wrists and pinning them to the bed.  Dean doesn't actually struggle all the much, it's more like every few seconds he seems to forget what's going on and tries to reach up to pull off the gag.  Sam looks around desperately and remembers he's still wearing his jeans and belt.  
  
He yanks the belt out of the loops with one hand and clumsily wraps it around Dean's wrists, dragging them up to fasten them to a bedpost.  He can't quite understand what Dean is saying anymore, but if the pointed looks at his wrists and the waggling eyebrows are any indication he's pretty sure it's something about bondage and how Sam's a kinky fucker.  He can practically hear Dean saying it anyway.  Whatever, Dean can say any fucking thing he wants once they get him to stop involuntarily spewing porn dialogue.  
  
Dean is still hard as a rock, even if Sam's enthusiasm has waned a bit with the edge of panic that's creeping into his thoughts.  He doesn't stop to wonder at the freakishness of his life that he's putting all his hopes in a blowjob.  He knows he's damn good at it, if Dean's frequent enthusiasm is anything to judge by, but he's never had to test his skills in order to break a weirdass sex-related loss of verbal inhibitions curse.  
  
There's gotta be a better name for that.  
  
This time he doesn't bother with slow, too desperate to finish this whether it breaks the curse or not.  Dean is still moaning above him, broken up sounds that are probably supposed to be words but aren't recognizable as anything but desperate pleading.  Sam takes Dean in as far as he can, sinks down until it feels like his jaw is stretched to the limit and the head of Dean's cock is pressing at the back of his throat.  He wraps his hand around the base of Dean's cock and tries to work both in tandem, setting a rhythm and a pace that slides off the tracks every time Dean lets out another muted cry or his back arches off the bed.  
  
It's hard to breath; the air around him thick and overheated.  Sam throws himself into the task with the wild hope that this will fix whatever kind of sick magic they'd wandered into this time.  
  
He feels Dean's orgasm building, familiar enough by now to know all his tells - the exact way the muscles of his thighs shudder and how his stomach pulls in so it's perfectly flat, he hears the telltale grunt loud and clear even through the gag.  Sam pulls off just enough so he can swallow down everything Dean gives him, ignoring the mess of spit and come that leaks down his chin in favor of milking those last few drops from Dean's cock.  
  
Sam stays still for a minute, head bent down and catching his breath, absently wiping at his chin with the back of his hand.  When he finally looks up, he realizes Dean is still awake, but completely silent now.  Dean's watching him with a relieved, sleepy look in his eyes.  
  
"-mmy?"   
  
"It stopped?" Sam asks and kind of wants to laugh like a maniac when Dean nods emphatically.  Sam reaches up and unfastens the belt fastening Dean's wrists and Dean immediately pulls the bunched up shirt out of his mouth.    
  
Dean swallows a few times and then slowly and deliberately says, "I like the color blue."  They both sit on edge, waiting for it to turn into a dirty joke.  It doesn't.    
  
"Oh thank god," Dean croaks out.  "I would say that really sucked, but...well.  Fucking librarians and their no talking rules.  Bunch of voyeuristic tyrants."

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted in response to a kink meme prompt back in ...oh, 2010-ish under a different account name. When I lost that account I thought I moved most everything over to the AO3 and orphaned it but every once in a while I find something that slipped through the cracks. 
> 
> Anyway, hope you enjoyed it!


End file.
